


(how can I say no to this)

by TheThirteenthHour



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Stranded, and it's hysterical if i do say so myself, james doesn't want to admit it, two stubborn grumpy boys stumble over the fact that they like kissing each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 10:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17160086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirteenthHour/pseuds/TheThirteenthHour
Summary: When you're stranded in space with someone you kinda don't like, there's no better way to pass the time than by kissing each other.Wait, no, that's not—





	(how can I say no to this)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for a holiday exchange in a server I'm in. Hope you like it, Dani!

James decides there could be worse things than being stranded in a nebula with no means of contacting anyone for help, with Keith as his only companion. He’d rather crawl bare-assed across a field of glass and Legos, but there _are_ worse things. At least it’s satisfying to know Keith must be thinking the same thing up in his Lion. It’s the little things.

In all fairness—though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even his team—they don’t hate each other. If they did, right now, they’d be snapping at each other over the comms at best, or would’ve flown off to die their separate ways at worst. They can work fine together when they have to; it’s smarter and easier to be civil.

James spends more time thinking about their history he should, though. Old taunts, competing sim scores, a fist clean against his cheek. It’s almost fond to think back on it all. Amusing, even, when he compares it to whatever the hell they have going now. If nothing else, it’s better than wondering how his team is faring.

He worries about them. He checks his scanners and his radio, hailing them or the Atlas or even the other Paladins every few minutes in hopes of finding someone. The pirate fleet they came across earlier had the home field advantage, and the fuckers chose a good place to camp. The gas cloud they’re caught in makes it impossible to see beyond a few dozen feet, and it’s interfering with their transmissions. They’ve been flying in one direction for two hours now, but they still haven’t found their way out of it or successfully contacted anyone else. And his fighter’s about to kick it.

He sighs. He pulls his jet closer to the Black Lion and opens a channel. “Any way we can tether my jet to your Lion?”

“What?” Keith asks, more static than voice. “Why?”

“I’m running low on fuel.”

The static sounds considerate. “Black can hold onto it.”

With what, curved, retractable claws long enough to cradle something a fifth its own size? “How.”

“She’s got teeth.”

James sneers. His jet’s gonna get scratched and dented to hell and back like that—and, yes, it’s a war weapon, yes, it’s already scratched and dented to hell and back, but it’s his baby. There must be some other option. But the Lions don’t have stupidly long, retractable claws as far as he knows, and the tail isn’t long enough to securely hold onto his jet. He huffs quietly, knowing Keith won’t hear the sound over the static. “Fine.”

It takes some finesse. It’s awkward, in a way James doesn’t know how to describe, to slowly, gently, very carefully guide his jet into the mouth of the Black Lion. He doesn’t think on it. He focuses on keeping his jet level and making sure the mouth closes _around_ the wings, not on them.

“Do I have you?” Keith asks.

“No, I’m not far enough in.”

“Oh. What if—”

“No, you’re gonna bite down on—!”

“Relax, I didn’t even move.”

“Like hell you didn’t, you’re touching—”

“Here.”

“Keith!”

He gets a little shouty.

They get his jet settled somewhat securely in the mouth of the Black Lion, the back end of it hanging out. He grabs the rifle strapped to the back of his seat, opens the cockpit, and floats out. He kicks off the front of his jet, launching himself into what he’s assuming is a way into the Black Lion’s cockpit. It’s a circular path at the back of the Lion’s mouth, lined with technology that must be part of the Lion’s weapons system. The mouth of the Lion is a massive, destructive canon, and his jet is currently in its line of fire.

He sighs. Those pirates better not show up again.

He floats into an antechamber that seals behind him without a single action on his part. He rights himself as gravity comes back on, and with the weight comes the awareness of the tension in his body. The rifle feels strange in his hands. The last he remembers of his team is the glint of Ina’s wing on his right. Then a blast of energy. Then fog, and static.

It isn’t until he reaches the cockpit that he realizes his hands hurt. He’s gripping the rifle too tightly.

He takes a soft breath, and he swears he hears the echo of it over the Lion’s comms. He sets his rifle down, leaning it against the wall near Keith’s seat, and pulls off his helmet.

The cockpit is darker than he expects it to be, lit in white-violet, a sweeping expanse of gray dust outside the windows. From here, it looks less like a winter wasteland and more like a holiday postcard, all pretty and inconsequential when it’s just in front of him and not all around him like in his jet. He takes one sweeping look at the rest of the cockpit: panels lit in Altean script, tracks for Keith seat, and the doors leading back out into the room that Keith has set up as an emergency bedroom. “Still no sign of anyone?” James asks, even though he knows the answer.

“No.”

“Lovely.”

They don’t say anything else for what James imagines to be an hour.

His mind keeps him busy enough. He slouches so deeply he may as well be lying down with his head propped up on the wall, rifle habitually within reach. He thinks too much about his team. Ina was the last one he saw. Nadia was the last one he heard, curses strung together with static. He doesn’t know about Ryan. Are they all with a Paladin? Are they with each other? Are they out there alone in dying jets, watching their chances of finding someone go down with their fuel?

His stomach twists.

“Think we’ll find them?” he asks quietly.

“Not the first time I’ve been separated from my team,” Keith answers, too levelly for James’ liking. Keith is supposed to be hot-headed, aggressive, infuriating. Instead, he’s confident and calm, and it’s grounding in a way that throws James off. “I mean, Allura wasn’t off on a separate mission, but. We’ll find them.”

James isn’t sure how that’s relevant. And what’s he doing looking to Keith for reassurance anyway?

James frowns and shuts his eyes. Keith’s team had best be keeping an eye out for his pilots too.

He doesn’t sleep. He wants to. It would make the wait less agonizing. But his body is tense. The Black Lion is too unfamiliar. Keith’s presence isn’t exactly comforting. And his mind keeps reeling. What if his team is scared? What if Ina has a shut down? What if those pirates find them? He sinks further to the floor, fingers itching for the controls of his jet and the ability to _do_ something.

“There’s a bed in the back.”

Keith’s voice startles him gently—and there’s a thought, that Keith could ever be gentle. James was close to falling asleep, so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear Keith walk behind his chair. He doesn’t like the height Keith has on him while he’s all but sprawled on the floor. But Keith isn’t even paying attention to him.

He’s stretching.

And that’s not something that should take up James’ attention. He should not be paying attention to the length of Keith’s arms or the curve of his leg, or the uncharacteristic grace of his body as he holds his foot behind him to stretch his thigh, gripping the back of his chair to balance himself. And James should _not_ be wondering how Keith would look stretching in just the tight undersuit of his armor.

James takes a breath, looks away, and shuts his eyes again for good measure. “Floor’s fine,” he mutters.

What the fuck.

Try as he might, the image of Keith stretching keeps coming back to him. And unfortunately, it’s much nicer to think about than his team’s status.

He still doesn’t quite fall asleep, but he dozes. In between worrying about his team, he wonders a little about Keith. He knows some specifics about what the Paladins have faced in their time away from Earth, but what about Keith himself? Did his anger and authority issues get in the way early on? Did he miss Earth at all? Did he regret anything he did or didn’t do at the Garrison? When did he develop some patience, and how? How did any of them ever trust him to lead them? What has he faced in all these years to make him someone… less irritating?

He doesn’t come up with any answers, aside from Captain Shirogane, but that’s a not a satisfying one. He wants something more specific than that, something to explain the quiet storm always present in Keith’s eyes, the iron will in his posture, and the steadiness in his voice. Curiosities that should never take up space in his thoughts.

The Black Lion rumbles.

“Did we find them?” James asks. There’s still nothing but gray outside the window as far as he can tell.

“Uh… No, I… I’m not sure.”

His skin buzzes. He sits up and eyes his rifle. As if that would be any help against an enemy ship.

“I’m picking up something,” Keith says, “I just—”

Something crackles.

He grabs his rifle and aims behind him, he knows it was there. But he doesn’t see anything. He stands and looks down his sights. “What is it?”

Panels beep and whir. “I… It’s gone.”

Nothing appears. He doesn’t hear anything unusual either. But he keeps his weapon raised. “Strange reading?”

Keith is quiet for a moment. The air shifts, like the Lion itself is equally pensive. “Don’t think so.”

Nothing moves.

There’s a crackle.

And the scene shifts like a dream.

Something flashes at the edge of his vision, Keith cries out something wordless and startled, and there’s the _shing_ and light of his bayard forming into a sword. Keith slams his sword into something fuzzy, gray, dusty, and it goes flying into the back door. It moves like a spider and stares James down with an empty face that asks him not to move, to lower his weapon and still and sleep so it can feast peacefully.

His arms move like they’re weighed down by bodies, and he fires. The alien dissipates completely. “What—”

“There’s more,” Keith says, but he sounds far away.

Keith looks… soft. Blurry.

Another crackle, and another gray alien appears, equally quick, faceless, and discouraging. James fires at it, his body protesting any movement, before Keith gets a chance to react. But there’s another crackle, and another alien, and another and another. He shoots, Keith slashes, and everything around him goes gray and dusty.

It’s hard to move. Hard to see. Hard to hear.

Something prods him.

Jabs him.

Shakes him.

There’s a noise in his ears, low and soft.

He’s still shooting.

“ _Griffin!_ ”

He takes a breath so sudden and sharp that his throat burns. The cockpit gains color and shape again. There are blast marks all over the walls. His rifle is on the floor, against the back doors like someone threw it there.

His hand hurts.

“Hey!” Keith shakes him by the neck of his suit. “Are you back yet?”

His body feels heavy. “What…?”

“They’re not real,” he says breathlessly.

His mind feels thick. It takes some seconds of staring at Keith’s face—the sharpness of his eyes and the scar that cuts over his cheekbone, and he has a rather pretty face, doesn’t he—for him to figure out what Keith means. “But…”

“They’re not,” Keith says, as an alien hovers over his shoulder, blank and angry and hungry, and the weight and numbness of James’ body finally pulls him to the floor. James tries to point at it, but ends up only squinting. “They’re _not_ ,” he repeats, glancing past James like he’s seeing the same thing. “I don’t know what the fuck is in this dust,” he pants, “but we need to get out.” He climbs back into his seat, but not without one wayward slash at the creature that he just insisted isn’t real. “Don’t look at them,” he orders, which works just fine for James because he only has the energy to shut his eyes anyway. “Don’t fall asleep either. I think that’s what they want.”

James grumbles.

He stares at his fingers. Counts. Follows any and every line in his suit that he can see. He catches a glimpse of his helmet on his left, but one of those things skitters around it. “What are they,” he whispers, too tired to properly ask.

Either Keith doesn’t hear him, or he ignores him. In all fairness to Keith, because James is tired enough to be fair to him, he is a little busy swerving the Black Lion around whatever it is that he finds in that dust. Maybe more of the aliens. It’s helpful, in a way. The sudden jerks make it hard to sleep.

The exhaustion doesn’t leave him, but it eases eventually. Lifting his head isn’t a sluggish chore. His helmet is alone, and there’s nothing in the air or on the walls. The only alien in here, judging by the empty back of the cockpit, is Keith.

“Hopefully that does it…” Keith mutters. “Injured or anything? You almost shot me.”

James tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a delighted scoff. That sounds about right. “My hand hurts.”

“You wouldn’t drop your gun.”

He hums. It’s still sidled up against the doors. Way too far away. “You should get that for me.”

“Get it yourself.”

“Can’t move.”

Keith is quiet for a moment. The Lion feels considerate. Funny how the air can change like that. “Can’t?” Keith asks.

“Too tired.”

Again, that considerate silence. Keith gets up, crouches beside him, and squints like he doesn’t know what to do with him. “You’re sure you’re not injured?” he asks slowly.

James gives him a flat look and an equally flat, “Really?”

Keith glares, but there isn’t much bite to it. He looks more exhausted than anything else. Impatient, at worst. “What, I’m the bad guy for making sure you’re okay after some alien fucked with our heads?”

“That what happened?”

“Only thing that makes sense.”

“Huh.”

Keith sighs and sits down next to him, fully leaning against the back of his chair. “Still haven’t found anyone.”

James frowns. “You’d think the strongest weapon in the universe would have a decent scanner.”

“You’d think.”

“You realize I’m blaming you if something happens to my team, right?” he says, only sort of meaning it.

Keith turns a disbelieving, squinty-eyed sneer on him. He’s got an impressive set of fangs on him, James will admit.

James tilts his head. “I mean if it turns out we flew right past them—”

Keith sucks his teeth and shoves him.

It’s light. Meant to dismiss and disarm rather than be aggressive. But it doesn’t sit well with James, not when he’s exhausted and worried. So he shoves back. Keith glares at him.

It’s a dumb little mess after that. Elbows in their sides, hands at their shoulders, fingers trying to claw through armor, grunts and curses tumbling past their lips. His eyes itch, his body’s exhausted, and he’s vaguely aware of the fact that they’re no worse than a pair of toddlers overdue for their naptime.

Keith is stronger than he looks.

The world flips, and in the blink of an eye, James is flat on his back, wrists pinned to either side of his head. Keith hovers over him with a tired glare and his dumb, soft mullet spilling over his shoulders and—no. _No._ He is not looking at Keith’s lips. No, he glares Keith in the eyes the entire time and…

And that’s not something sudden and soft in Keith’s gaze. It’s not like they simultaneously become aware of the position they’re in, not like their curses and petty grunts stop at the same time. They absolutely do not glance at each other’s lips. And… Keith doesn’t get closer. Or warmer, in a way James didn’t know he could get. Or heavier, a pleasant, barely-there weight against his chest.

Keith doesn’t kiss him gently, or fit his lips around James’ in a blissfully hazy way… And it’s not like James lets him. It’s not like James lifts his chin and kisses him back with ease. He doesn’t pull Keith in by his shoulders. And after the kiss ends and they stay close, James doesn’t lean up and kiss him again. He… He doesn’t.

“What the fuck,” Keith breathes, lips still touching his.

James laughs.

He laughs so hard it spills out of him in an unholy cackle, harsh and convulsive, knocking his forehead against Keith’s nose more than once. _What the fuck_ is the only correct response to this, kissing on the floor of the Black Lion’s cockpit, after getting attacked by pirates, being separated from their teams, and whatever the hell it was that happened with the dust aliens—making him tired and lowering his inhibitions, that must be what’s going on. There’s no way this would’ve happened otherwise. He wouldn’t find it so damn funny otherwise. (Right?)

“Would you shut up, you asshole?” Keith hisses.

Is that a blush across Keith’s cheeks? It blends well with his scar.

James quiets his laughter behind a smirk and rests his head against the floor. “I don’t take orders from you,” he says. And he shouldn’t—he really really shouldn’t, but he kind of doesn’t care— He adds quietly, “You’re gonna have to make me.”

It takes a second, but the flash of understanding in Keith’s eyes is at once exciting and terrifying, and for one gut-churning moment, James can’t decide if it would be worse if Keith kissed him again, or left him on the floor.

Keith looks… shy. A curiously soft expression for such a sharp man, like for once in his life that impulse of _fuck you, I do what I want_ isn’t driving his every action. Keith’s gaze darts down to James’ lips, and when he looks him in the eyes again, there’s a warmth there that James doesn’t know what to do with.

Thankfully, Keith leans in before he can convince himself to consider it.

James kisses him. He kisses him and buries his hands in his dumb mullet and pulls him close, holds him tight when Keith hums into his mouth. Kissing him is warm, needy, welcome—a welcome distraction. That’s all it is. A distraction. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t want to think about it at all, just wants to feel the warmth of Keith’s presence even through their suits, wants to feel his tongue and teeth and spit in his mouth, wants the weight of Keith’s body against his. He drinks Keith in and reminds himself that this is just a distraction, that nothing soft dances in his heart—that, if there is anything, it’s only the exact opposite.

What. The fuck.

Something beeps. There’s static, and a voice cuts through the sound of them kissing. “Keith?”

It’s Captain Shirogane.

Keith stiffins. His mouth stops moving. James tries to pull him back in, nipping at his lips, but Captain Shirogane repeats his name, and Keith leaves him with a simple kiss that is presumably supposed to appease him.

James scowls at the ceiling. Lovely.

“Shiro?” Keith says as he takes his seat. “Shiro, I’m here. Do you read me?”

James sighs, sits up, and doesn’t think too much about the feeling coiling in his chest. It’s more than just disappointment—a little darker, and something he shouldn’t be feeling in the first place.

“Keith!” There’s a staticky sigh. “Good, we found you. Is Griffin with you? You’re the only two missing.”

That, at least, is something promising. James stands slowly, an odd, heavy ache still in his muscles.

“Y-yeah,” Keith says, and James scoffs quietly. “You found everyone else?”

There’s no video feed on the dash, just the spectrogram of Captain Shirogane’s voice and the static lacing it. “Yeah. Are you two fine? Seems like everyone had a run-in with something in that dust cloud.”

“Oh. Yeah, we did too, but we’re fine. Is everyone okay?” There’s a split second of consideration in the air. “The MFEs?”

Oh.

“Everyone’s fine,” Captain Shirogane says. “Just stay put, we’ll be by in about fifteen minutes.”

“Alright.”

The comms close out.

He studies Keith for a minute. His hands are tight around the controls, his shoulders are tense, and he’s leaning forward in his seat like he’s ready to take off. James pegs it as a desire to fight or flee, and he doubts it has anything to do with Captain Shirogane.

He frowns, crosses his arms, and stubbornly ignores the sinking feeling in his chest.

It’s quiet.

The dust cloud is below them now. “Thanks for asking about them,” James says.

“Yeah,” Keith says. Clipped. Abrupt. “No problem.”

His chest feels heavy, hollowed, and now he can’t ignore it. He’ll likely only have these fifteen minutes to do anything about it. Dancing around it now would be useless. But there are things that don’t need to be said, and things he doesn’t want to say—things he doesn’t even really want to think about—so he goes with the most direct question. “Why’d you kiss me?”

He swears the air thrums with nervousness and voyeuristic glee. These Lions…

“Same reason you kissed me,” Keith answers.

Helpful. “You’re gonna have to parse that one for me.”

The Black Lion rumbles, so quietly it’s more like a buzz that James feels on his skin. Is it annoyed?

“Thought it would feel nice,” Keith mutters.

It’s hardly an answer, and not the answer he— Well. It’s not like he should’ve expected anything to begin with, despite everything he doesn’t want to think about. He cuts Keith a glare, but he’s still not looking at him. “Didn’t think you’d be a soft kisser…”

Keith’s posture relaxes a little.

And James realizes what he just said.

“What, you’ve thought about that?” Keith asks.

“N-no, just—” It’s not that damning an observation to make, is it? Keith is all edges and daggers in everything he does, it’s pretty logical to assume he’s the same with kissing. “That’s not _you_ ,” he says, but that response is worse. It suggests he pays attention to _Keith_ and everything that makes him who he is and— James hunches his shoulders and glares out the window.

Keith turns to him, and James should keep glaring out the window but he doesn’t, like a fool. Keith gives him a satisfied look like he caught James red-handed, and makes a pleased little sound before turning back to his scanners. “Could be harsher if you want,” Keith whispers.

No.

Did he?

He stares at Keith and plays the words over and over in his head. He had to have misheard that, right?

“Gonna have to make me, though,” Keith adds.

James sputters. His face absolutely is not going red, no, not at that, not at the suggestion that Keith would want to…

Keith gives him a brief, smug little smirk, one perfect little fang peeking through.

James turns away. It’s the only way to hide his smile. “Asshole…”

**Author's Note:**

> this absolutely starts a habit of them kissing behind closed doors
> 
> [tumblr](https://write-nonsense-by-the-ream.tumblr.com/post/181409776928/james-frowns-and-shuts-his-eyes-keiths-team-had) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/thirteenthhr/status/1077677573205880834)


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